


something about pineapples and rocket ships

by Jenwryn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Family, Gift Fic, M/M, What is with the motels?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-26
Updated: 2011-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-23 02:13:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/245107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenwryn/pseuds/Jenwryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are days when Sam's inner bitch has to wonder whether Dean goes out of his way to find the cheesiest, most ridiculous places for them to stay, rather than simply the cheapest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	something about pineapples and rocket ships

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stripedtabby](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=stripedtabby).



> This is for Cat. Because she is far too adorable, makes me far too happy, and she not only keeps me company when I'm going out of my brain at my work desk but she _also_ draws me freaking sweet art. THIS IS FOR YOU AND FOR SAMMY'S EPIC BITCHFACE, BABE. *loves on*
> 
>    
> (p.s. sorry if you subscribe to me and therefore ended up with a dead version of this in your inbox: clearly I have trouble hitting the preview button or something. |D;)

The motel is – well, the motel is characteristically tacky and, okay, there are days when Sam's inner bitch has to wonder whether Dean goes out of his way to find the cheesiest, most ridiculous places for them to stay, rather than simply the cheapest. This one has giant purple flowers on the wallpaper, big as Sam's head and clearly not quite normal; the bedside lamps are a leery off-green. The painting on the wall has sparkles, and there's a tiny rocket hanging from the curtain rail. It is, Sam thinks, as though the interior decorator was aiming for _space hooker_.

Dean is grinning far too much for it to be honestly coincidental, and Sam just knows that this is his own fault, for having had the stupidity to complain about the pineapple-themed décor of the last place.

“But you like pineapples, Sammy,” Dean had protested with extreme innocence while Cas, clearly distracted by the texture of one of Dean's cotton t-shirts against his skin ( _laundry is what sets us apart from the animals_ , Sam had heard Dean say, of all bizarre things, before there'd been a scramble for trench-coats and button-downs), had merely wrinkled his face and blinked.

“You'll like pineapples somewhere, in a minute,” Sam had seethed.

And now – space hooker.

Fantastic.

Sam sighs, tosses his bag onto the single bed beneath the rocket, and goes to wash his face in the bathroom. He refuses to acknowledge the veritable stench of Dean's amusement.

“I love Nevada,” he can hear his brother saying, and Cas answers something in response, which the rush of water from the faucet obscures. It's good, strong water pressure, which admittedly goes a ways towards making Sam forgive the doped-up bastard who'd put the glittery stars and planets above the mirror. Decent water pressure is a pleasure and a rarity, after all.

Sam studies his reflection, long hair dripping at the sides of his face, water running from his forehead and sticking to his lashes. Dean and Cas's voices have dropped to a familiar hum of noise. It's a like a television set turned on, low and comforting; a memory from Sam's babyhood, and Dean watching him, half-asleep, in the flickering light of the moving pictures. Cas and Dean have become that: gentle, reassuring, and if Sam can hear them but not hear them, it means that everything is okay, everything is safe.

Well, not for Dean, perhaps. There is a harried look to his face, sometimes, when he's been left too close to Cas for too long; a certain white to his eyes. Sam knows his brother, however. Knows that it's only Dean being Dean. Only Dean, having trouble facing down the obvious.

But, to Sam, it's comforting.

He had actually given up hope on their family expanding. Since Jess. Since Ruby. Since the universe had conspired against them, and they against it.

He rubs his hands at his face, brushing off water, brushing his hair back. He shakes like a puppy, just because he knows the splattered water will annoy Dean and, hello, there is a disco ball for a light.

Sam returns to the bedroom, collar damp and cold. He sits on the edge of his bed and pulls off his boots, just to be able to flex his toes.

Dean hurries past, mumbling; ears red, hair mussed, and he shuts the bathroom door behind him.

Cas is smiling like he's just learnt how to smile, like his lips can't stop twitching even though he's trying to lace them down, like he just – can't – stop.

Sam rubs the arch of his foot with a thumb, then flops back onto the violent colours of the bedspread, too amused to be bothered by the affront to his aesthetics.

When he looks sideways, Cas is actually touching fingers to his mouth.

Sam grins. Flashes of the good parts of highschool flit into his mind. Flashes of the warm, gentle memories that swirl in him, when he can remember Jess without the pain. Ruby without the blood.

“He'll get there eventually,” Sam says tolerantly, and Cas startles, goes pink in a wave from his loosened tie upwards.

Sam pushes at the curtain with his heel; makes the rocket twinkle, then turns his face to the wall and listens to the sounds of the street outside, of the room inside, of Dean coming back out of the bathroom and hefting his bag onto a chair that squeaks.

Dean actually hums, when Sam feigns sleep, and – space hookers or not – the room feels like home when Cas, tentatively and far out of tune, clears his throat, and joins right in.


End file.
